


Under Command of the King

by Nym



Series: A Bed of Thorns Remixes Etc. [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: A Bed of Thorns side ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6332086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nym/pseuds/Nym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A side story to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/377718">A Bed of Thorns</a>. Belle's father Sir Maurice is commanded to get himself a new wife and heir. Requested by Tumblr user <strong><a href="http://housebaberatheon.tumblr.com/">housebaberatheon</a></strong>.</p><p>
  <em>Maybe it's just the sight of rich new silk in this happily tired old room, or maybe it's the way her hair, straw yellow, has escaped a little from beneath the severe cap to hint at riotously cheerful curls. And she has no needlework in her lap, nor a black handkerchief to show her grief; she does not expect him to play the courtly game with her and treat her as if he imposes on her sorrow with his impertinence.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Command of the King

**Author's Note:**

> **None of my fanfiction may be reposted or otherwise shared elsewhere, including translations and audio recordings, unless you have my written consent. Using my occasional original ideas/characters in your own fanfic, to make your own words or art or whatever, is fine with me.**

It's rich, he thinks, handing his reins to a groom. It's just rich, that's all, that the fellow who's spent half his life as a celibate widower to the late lamented Queen commands a man to get a wife and heir. King George usually leads his battles from the front, never asking of his men what he wouldn't gladly do himself.

The house stands atop a low hill that overlooks pleasant pasture land and a lazy tributary of the great river that flows to the sea. He's heard that it's an old seat but not a wealthy one, and can see with the eye of a man who maintains a small town and a large castle that the modest wooden manor house is in sore want of repair. Its gardens are immaculate, every inch given over to food production, and no wonder. How many children does she have in there again?

Sir Maurice baulks at the threshold like a skittish horse refusing a jump. He swallows hard and doesn't look back at his men in case they're sniggering.

In his left hand, a bunch of cut flowers fresh off the coasting ships has begun to sag in his throttle-hold. They're blue. That's the wrong colour for wooing, isn't it? He sent the boy to buy the most expensive, the largest, the freshest. As if a bunch of fancy flowers could make up for the bargain the poor woman is getting; an old man, youthful muscle long run to mere bulk. He wants her to know that he didn't ask for her, would _never_ have asked this of her. He can't face her knowing that she thinks he asked the king for her hand. For once in his life, Maurice means to hide behind his King.

When he fails to enter boldly as a fellow come courting probably should, one of her servants steps from the shadows into the doorway. He's an older man, his livery gone dull with long wear.

"Sir Maurice. My Lady is expecting you." He gives the smallest of bows, indicating that while he serves a gentlewoman, he himself outranks this visitor of humble birth. Maurice is used to that, as a man raised up by the King on merit and on trust. The days when blue blood ran with honour are long past and George keeps proven men about him, men who can stand up to the ancestral nobility. Or, Maurice thinks with a wry twist of his mouth, at least can stand in their way.

Lady Marcelle's late husband was one of those men, noble and brave to a fault, square jawed and seemingly always in his armour. It's a shame that he died of camp fever before he ever got to swing a sword against the foe. Maurice pities him that, knowing that such a deathbed would be grim with shame, with fear that the stain of that dishonour would pass down to his sons along with the titles and the silver. At least he offers the poor lady that. While he has no titles and little silver, the honour of Sir Maurice, risen man, is spotless enough to wash that of his adopted sons clean.

How many was it again?

He swallows hard, tries to wet his mouth with his tongue, and follows the soft-footed servant along an uneven passage. The upkeep of the place has been ruinous to the family, and Maurice isn't alone in wondering why it hasn't been pulled down and rebuilt of good local brick. Seeing it now he understands; the place feels like family, like a home, and the shabby wear feels comfortable. If he's honest, his own chambers are much the same, nothing changed since his wife died. He'll need to do something about that.

"My Lady." The servant bows at an archway, his body obscuring the room beyond and its occupants. "Sir Maurice."

As if she would have been expecting anybody else. The king has arranged this. Nobody gets in the way of a king's plans.

Standing aside, the servant extends an arm to usher him into the room.

Expecting to see advisors, maids and an awful lot of small sons, Maurice is taken aback to see the lady sitting alone on a couch. She's dressed as if for court, hair bound under a cap and veiled with a length of the finest black silk. Her dress is black too, high-collared, long sleeved and entirely appropriate to a wealthy widow, yet something about the picture doesn't ring true. Maybe it's just the sight of rich new silk in this happily tired old room, or maybe it's the way her hair, straw yellow, has escaped a little from beneath the severe cap to hint at riotously cheerful curls. And she has no needlework in her lap, nor a black handkerchief to show her grief; she does not expect him to play the courtly game with her and treat her as if he imposes on her sorrow with his impertinence.

"Sir Maurice." She doesn't rise, though he's definite in his own mind that this is because her manners are well-taught rather than because she wishes to wear her ennui as armour against his approach. Her back is straight, her gaze unfaltering, and the hand she extends in greeting waits, steady, for him to take it, to bend and brush an obedient kiss to her knuckles.

With an inner lurch he sees the pale line where her wedding ring used to sit. She's even thought of that.

"My Lady. It's an honour to meet you." And a shock to see her, he has to confess. He knew she was young, as young as the King thought he could countenance in a new bride, but when he thinks of this fine woman on his arm his mind simply goes blank. There's something vibrant about her, something inwardly youthful. It's something that reminds him so much more of his own precious daughter than of his late lady wife. How can he? How could he? And how can she ever consent to... to _him?_

He holds out the bunch of flowers, desperately.

"You're blushing," says Lady Marcelle, and then she smiles. Takes the flowers and lays them beside her. Green eyes come alight with a kindly mirth and a little colour rises in her own cheeks, as though to spare him the shame of his. "I have had a letter from His Majesty."

"A letter?" Maurice drops her hand, his voice a weak croak. He's shocked. The king is rarely so dismissive towards a lady's feelings.

Her smile gets broader.

"Prince James brought it to me. He was very kind."

Relieved, he nods and smiles too. That's more like King George, to show the lady that her cause merits the attention of none other than a royal prince; to suggest that this command is, against all the evidence, merely a humble request on behalf of an old friend. Prince James flatters easily, he flatters everyone. If you need a man to break grim news, there's none better.

"You should know," he begins, for once in his life not sure where his words will lead him, "that if you object in any way to this marriage then I will defy the King, and protect you as if you were my own..." He bites down on 'daughter' just in time. "My own sister."

"I wasn't your choice, then?"

He gawps. He fumbles for a way to retract the unintended slight. He feels himself go a boiling red from neck to crown.

The lady laughs, and the laughter is kind. She rises, careful of her stiff dress, and he steps back to make room. She stands as tall as his shoulder and although she seems slightly built, motherhood has rounded her out and softened what might have been a severe beauty. Maurice has respect enough for any woman who births a child and lives to tell the tale, but for the mother of seven he feels there ought to be a medal struck.

"Prince James was frank with me," she says, touching his arm lightly before passing him. He turns to follow her with his eyes, belatedly aware that his mouth is hanging open. He shuts it. "This marriage was his idea. He felt that we'd make a good match, since the King insists that you marry again." She's pouring red wine into two pewter goblets, and he's glad. He badly needs a drink. "I should tell you that he wasn't overly fond of my late husband, Sir Alphonse. His Majesty, I mean. I think the Prince may be trying to rescue me from that reputation."

"He's most gallant," Maurice agrees, and is pleased with himself for saying something suitable. He's finding it difficult to breathe, and not because his weak old heart is failing him, but because this lady astonishes him. It's impossible to be anything less than honest with her. "The King is displeased with me too."

The lady brings him the goblet and watches with her head tilted as he takes a grateful sip. She sips her own, then cups the bowl between both hands and bows her head over it, as though scrying in the wine.

"Prince James would not speak of that," she said. It's the first hint he's seen of timidity, of uncertainty. "It's rumoured that you angered both the Duke of the Frontlands and the Dark One himself."

"That's true." It's a blur to him now, but yes, he did that. Slighted his daughter's husband, undermined his king's authority. Saw his darling Belle's eyes turn hard and hurt against him. "If Prince James means to salvage my reputation, my Lady, then it's a kindness I don't deserve."

"The prince values one's loyalty to the crown, and to his father," she answers, shrugging slightly. "And it seems that he values us both." She takes another small sip of wine, betraying another hint of nervous agitation. "They did tell you that I have seven children, sir?"

"Yes." He was right then. Seven. Three of them boys. The house seems remarkably quiet. "If you do me the honour of becoming my wife," he goes on, slowly and carefully, "then your sons will become my heirs, should we have no children of our own." It's as indelicate as he's prepared to get, but he won't have her thinking that her children's future safety rests on her submitting to an old man's caresses, or that he'll bind her to the promise of another pregnancy, another labour. Not until the King starts issuing that medal. "I, and the King, will be content that my holdings pass into loyal hands."

Her smile is sly, hiding her embarrassment behind humour. She meets his eyes a moment, assessing, then lowers them again.

"Is that the marriage you desire, Sir Maurice?"

Relieved that she's taken his meaning, he realises that he doesn't know the answer to her question. He tries a gulp of wine but it doesn't help. She tilts her head again and goes on, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. "Prince James implied that we were, as it were, to fornicate under command of the King."

He chokes on the mouthful of wine rather than splutter it over the lady. It's a near thing.

Lady Marcelle takes his arm, steadying him with surprising strength, and a servant hurries from invisibility to thump him on the back until he can wheeze an apology for his manners. But, really, does she know what it is she just said to him?

Alarm at his choking is all he can see in her face now. More of her hair has come free and a ringlet tries to fall over her cheek. She brushes it away absently, as if such beauty is nothing to her.

The servant eases him into a chair and the lady, to his shame, crouches at his feet and lays a soothing hand on his forearm. She knows, he realises; she knows that his heart is bad, that she's being saddled with half a husband, one who could leave her a widow for a second time within months or weeks. They'll do something about that, he decides. If this good woman will have him, he'll see that authority rests in her hands until her eldest boy comes of age. He'll make this worth her damned while.

"Alphonse said that I was vulgar," she confesses, though he thinks that it's his shock that she's ashamed of, not her choice of words. "He was a prude. I'm not one, Sir Maurice, and after seven childbeds I stand on my right to call a thing what it is. That is my only condition before I accept you."

Dear gods, but she reminds him of Belle. That round-eyed sincerity, her loveliness, her youth, the goodness that shines from her. Can he even look past that to the woman she is, the wife she could be?

"I was just thinking," he manages, wondering where his wine went. Her servants are very good. "That there should be a medal. For childbirth."

Marcelle laughs, her hand tightening into a warm squeeze.

"You're right about that," she says, and his heart fills with her warmth. "Good man."


End file.
